


Wounded

by Impala_Dreamer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, NSFW, Smut, spoilers for 14x14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 22:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18417632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Dreamer/pseuds/Impala_Dreamer
Summary: ~Michael has fallen, Jack is restored, but things aren’t alright, and Dean needs some time to get back to good.~





	Wounded

It took some time for everything to calm down.

They spent the rest of the night moving bodies, friends they’d just really gotten to know. Maggie was last, and Jack insisted on carrying her himself, gently laying her down on the second pyre, giving her cheek a soft kiss before backing away.

Sam couldn’t remember a harder goodbye. Sure, they’d lost people they were closer to, but never under their own roof, never so many at once. He could see the pain in Dean’s face, the guilt that pushed down on his shoulders; Sam could almost read his mind.

“It’s my fault,” he said before striking the first match. “I let him out.”

Sam shook his head and looked to the sky. He wanted to tell Dean that he was wrong, that it wasn’t his fault, that Michael was bound to escape sooner or later, but it didn’t matter. There was no balm for Dean’s pain, or for any of them.

Guilt hung over each of their heads as the flames burned.

Rowena cried in silence, stoically staring into the depths of the fire, her eyes wet and running. Her yes had killed a dozen people. Her weakness had given Michael strength. 

Sam chewed his tongue, trying to find some words to fill the air, hoping some meaning would present itself and make sense of it all, but there was nothing. His reluctance to lose his brother gave Michael the time he needed to escape.

Cas stood beside Jack, a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He couldn’t save anyone that night, nor the night before. He lost the upper hand with Noah, and his ineffectiveness had lead to the fight that brought Dean down, giving Michael his chance.

It was everyone’s fault and no one’s, but it was over.

Michael was dead.

~

When the last embers had died away and the wind had taken the ashes into itself, they headed back home.

The Bunker was silent. Funny how having so many people around had been a shock, a rather stressful adjustment, but Sam had gotten used to the noise. Now the halls echoed a little louder, the ceilings seemed higher, the rooms colder.

They each went their separate ways, Rowena leaving entirely. It was late and the heaviness of the day wore on them all.

Sam stood alone in the War Room, fingers twitching at the hem of his shirt, eyes high, staring where Michael’s essence had swirled overhead just hours before. For so many months, his demise had been Sam’s ultimate goal, and in a flash, it was over.

The clink of glass caught his ear and he turned to see Dean hunched over the bar cart in the Library. His back was turned but Sam could feel his pain, see it in his shoulders.

Dean tipped his head back as he downed his drink and cleared his throat as he went for another.

“You OK?” Sam made his way down the short stack of stairs, his approach loud but ignored by Dean, who took another shot of whiskey.

“Oh, I’m just fine, Sammy.”

Whiskey sloshed into the tumbler again and Sam came closer.

“Do you want to talk about?”

Dean took a long sip and held it in his mouth, letting the alcohol sting his tongue, numb his mouth a bit. When he swallowed he let out a satisfied sigh and grabbed the bottle, turning with it in his fist. “No, Sam, what I want to do is get drunk and sleep for like… a month.”

“Dean-”

“I said no.”

Dean breezed past his brother and headed for his room, bottle lifting to his lips every few feet. He had a long way to go before the whiskey shut his eyes, and he was in a rush to get there.

Sam let him go without another word, not wanting to fight. He moved about the rooms, quietly turning off lights and righting fallen chairs, making sure the place was somewhat in order before heading off to bed himself. He knew sleep would be elusive, but closing his eyes for a few hours, dreams or not, would be better than pacing the floors in a semi-panic.

Everything had happened so quickly and then it was just… done. It felt unfinished somehow, anticlimactic, and he held his breath as if the other shoe would drop at any second.

Sam pulled off his filthy clothes and shrugged on his pjs, the chilly room forcing him to reach for his long sleeved gray top. He turned off the light and perched on the edge of his bed, elbows digging into his knees while he held his temples.

Everything was OK, he told himself. Everything would be OK. It was a victory, bittersweet and painful in the depths of their losses, but a victory nonetheless. 

He didn’t really notice the knock; Dean’s knuckles barely making a sound as they slid drunkenly down the old varnished wood.

“Sammy?” His voice was slurred and dark, and Sam looked up as Dean pushed the door open.

Fingers pushed through messy hair, tucking it behind his ears. “What’s up?”

Dean sighed and took a swig from the almost empty bottle. He leaned on the door frame, his face in shadow, body haloed by the hallway lights. He hadn’t changed, but his boots were off and his jeans hung low over his socked feet.

“Uh, nothing,” Dean said with a hoarse laugh. “I just wanted to see you.”

Sam sat up, his brow scrunched in question. “Yeah, yeah, come on in.”

It was like that sometimes. After a lifetime of being together constantly, sleeping in the same room, sometimes the same shitty motel bed, it got lonely at night. Dean got especially lonely when he drank like this, when something was weighing on his mind, when he needed comfort.

Dean gave the door a sloppy shove as he walked in, the latch barely catching behind him. He shuffled towards Sam and stopped when his feet were between his brothers. Sam looked up and sighed. Dean was passed drunk, a goofy but sad smile lifting his wet lips.

“You wanna sit and talk?” Sam asked in a whisper, his breath catching in his throat as Dean lay a hand on his cheek. A thick thumb traced the line of Sam’s jaw and Dean shook his head slowly.

“Told you, I don’t wanna talk about it.” His fingers curled beneath Sam’s chin, lifting his face upwards as Dean bent down.

Sam dodged his kiss, turning away at the last moment. He spun and stood, turning his back on Dean who teetered as Sam’s arm knocked into him.

“Dean, maybe we should just-”

“What, Sam? Talk about it?” Dean huffed loudly and dragged a hand down his face, scratching at the beginnings of a beard. “You want me to lay down and spill my guts like you’re my shrink or something? You need me to pour out my heart to you? Tell ya all about my feelings?” He scoffed and took a drink, turning around awkwardly to sit in the space Sam had vacated. “Not interested.”

Sam closed his eyes and took a breath. There was no use fighting anymore. They’d fought enough for several lifetimes already. But still, he thought, if Dean would just let him in, he could help.

“I want to help you,” he said under his breath, not bothering to look at the eye roll Dean surely gave him in return.

“Sam, we’ve both been through the wringer.” Dean stood again and went to him, a hand on his elbow gently turning Sam around to face him. “Can’t we just…forget it all? Just for tonight?” He offered Sam the bottle but again he was denied. Dean grit his teeth, annoyance rising with every shake of Sam’s head. “Fine. You wanna talk about it? Let’s talk about it!”

“Don’t be like that,” Sam begged, a touch of hurt creeping into his voice. His throat was tight again, his eyes burning, but he had pushed, so he had to bear it.

“No, no,” Dean argued with a hint of mocking levity. “You wanted to talk about it. So let’s talk! How ya feelin’, Sammy? Good? Happy?”

“Worried,” Sam squeaked out before peeling his gaze away as Dean drank greedily from the bottle. “Worried about you.”

Dean coughed as a hurtful laugh interrupted his swallow. “I’m right as rain, brother. Michael’s dead. Jack’s back to his old self. Everyone’s…we’re all just…fine.” His shoulders fell and he let the bottle hang down, barely gripped in his left fist. He turned his back to Sam as his eyes flooded with tears, no longer caring if they fell or dried.

“You don’t have to pretend.” Sam hung his head, breathing heavy, feeling useless but needing to try. “You’ve been through hell, Dean, and barely given yourself a break. Now that it’s over- maybe you need to decompress a little.”

Dean laughed sadly and lifted the bottle of whiskey, shaking it a bit for Sam’s benefit. The dregs sloshed up the sides like stormy amber waves trapped in a glass cove.

“I don’t mean by getting drunk and passing out every night.”

“I know what you mean.”

Dean’s tone was harsh, and it punched Sam in the chest.

“I know how hard this has been for you,” Sam pushed, dancing around his own wounds.

“You don’t have any idea.” Dean looked over his shoulder, his eyes dropped and heavy, jaw clenched. “He’s been…picking away at me with his bare fists, screaming, tearing at me from the inside. After riding me, twice… I-”

Sam dared to lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean flinched but didn’t pull away, letting Sam curl his fingers tight around him. “He’s gone, Dean. Michael’s gone.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.”

Dean shrugged his hand away, spinning with the bottle and taking another drink. “We thought he was gone before.”

“He’s dead,” Sam insisted. “You saw it.”

“Didn’t it seem too easy?” Dean swayed on his feet, head back, eyes to the ceiling fan as it spun gently. “When is it ever that easy for us?”

Sam sighed heavily. “It wasn’t easy. We lost- damn near everyone.” He grit his teeth and shut his eyes against the memory of Maggie burning from the inside out. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, at least for Dean’s sake. He was needed, he had to be the strong one for a while. “Why don’t you go get some sleep and tomorrow, maybe things will look different.”

“I don’t want to sleep, Sam.” He turned, eyes red and tired, but pleading.

“But you don’t want to talk.”

Dean scoffed and tongued his cheek in annoyance. “I didn’t come here for a five cent therapy session, Sam.”

“I know why you came here.” Sam looked down on him sadly.

“And yet, you’re sending me to bed.” Dean nodded with a sarcastic smile. “Alone.”

Sam huffed and looked away, done with it all. “Ya know what? Yeah. Go sleep it off, Dean.” He turned, ready to make a point by climbing into bed, but Dean’s pained, whispered accusation stopped him.

“You don’t want me anymore,” Dean sniffed around a fallen tear. “I’m too damaged.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Damaged? Dean, when have either of us not been damaged?”

Green eyes looked up into hazel and Dean’s spiral met its end. “Ya know what? Fuck it.” He spun away, arms raised, whiskey spilling down his hand as it jumped from the bottle. “Just fuck it.”

Sam chased him before he hit the door. “Don’t do this.”

“You sent me away! You did this!” Dean spat back, attempting to step around Sam who was blocking his exit.

“I just think you need to rest, is all.”

Dean looked up, defeated and miserable. “I’ve rested,” he said softly. “What I need… is you.”

“Dean…”

“You know, Michael was right about one thing,” Dean said, ignoring Sam’s call. He chewed his lip as the words came slowly, looking down at their feet, afraid to look Sam in the eye. “When he said he couldn’t keep me under control the first time…” He paused and swatted a tear away with the back of his hand. “…because I was trying so hard to get back…to you.”

Dean looked up finally and Sam’s resistance fell. He reached out, grabbing Dean’s face in his big hands and pulling him up and close. Their lips met like they always did, a comforting heat passing between them. The kiss was full, deep, swirling with fire and pain. It was heaven and hell inside one simple action, and when Sam’s tongue swept firmly across Dean’s bottom lip, they became one being again. They were never complete apart, never able to do more than fight to be reunited, and nights like these, they gave in, letting the sin wash over them so they could take what they both needed.

The whiskey was left somewhere far across the room, and Sam lead Dean slowly towards the bed, picking at the buttons on his flannel as they stumbled backwards. Dean was barely coherent, lost in Sam’s touch, drowning in whiskey, but he could feel every swipe of Sam’s fingers, every press of his lips. He could relax in Sam’s arms and float for a while.

They tumbled around, making a mess of Sam’s neatly made bed, tossing pillows to the floor and tangling in the blanket, trying to remember their rhythm. It was magic when they found it; hands falling to hips, teeth sinking into shoulders, lips flying across freckled fields of smooth skin. 

The air was heavy when Sam laid back down; Dean curling in on himself and turning away, his hands tucked beneath his cheek. Sam fit his hands beneath his head and found his favorite spot on the ceiling. It was a crack just above the fan, and some nights, if he stared long enough, the crack would start to move, spread wide across the entire ceiling and threaten to swallow him whole. As terrifying as the image always was, some days he longed for it, for the emptiness that would in that darkness. But not tonight. He blinked the vision away and turned his head, watching Dean’s shoulders move as he fell asleep, wondering if he was dreaming or lost in his own void.

“We’re all wounded, Dean,” he whispered as a gentle snore rose from his brother. “All of us. But it’s how we heal that matters.” Sam rolled onto his side and traced the curve of Dean’s lower back with his index finger; just a light touch that made Dean’s hips twitch. “We just have to take the time do it.”

Dean stirred, pulling in a deep breath and mumbling into the sheets as he turned over more. “Night, Sammy.”

Sam sighed and rolled onto his back again, searching for the crack once more. “Night, Dean.”


End file.
